


Shadows of the Dark Unknown

by SaucyWench



Category: Being Human (UK), The Almighty Johnsons
Genre: Blood Drinking, Drug Use, Eventual Happy Ending, Graphic Violence, M/M, Minor Character Death, Occasional mentions of actual history, Sad with a Happy Ending, Suicidal Thoughts, Temporary Character Death, dark story, drug overdose, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-07-22 05:29:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 20,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7421767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaucyWench/pseuds/SaucyWench
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Photoset Challenge on Tumblr.  Thanks to GatheringFiKi for the amazing prompt!  </p>
<p>There are things worse than death.  Outliving the love of your life, for example.  Just when Mitchell thinks he can't endure another day, things get better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please be sure to heed the tags.

[Photoset Prompt](http://gatheringfiki.tumblr.com/post/146711673609/the-photosets-challenge-set-13-other)

 

Anders had dealt with yet another family thing, cleaning up his brothers’ mess, and was in a foul mood when he got home.  Bragi was snarling and muttering in the back of his mind, making his mood worse.  To top it all off, Mitchell was being surly and hurling barbs from where he was perched on the end of the couch. 

Anders stood in the kitchen, waiting to see if the day would somehow get worse.  He took a deep drink from the glass of vodka he held, and then raised his free hand to rub at his temple.  If Bragi would just shut up for a few minutes, it would be so much easier.  His hand was shaking when he lowered it. 

“You know, maybe your head wouldn’t hurt if you didn’t drink so much,” Mitchell said without looking away from the television. 

Anders carefully set his glass down on the counter, resisting the urge to throw it.  Imitating Mitchell’s tone, he said, “You know, if you don’t like my drinking you don’t have to be around it.”

“You’re right.”  Mitchell threw his hands up.  “I don’t have to stay and be around it.”

“Fucking drama queen,” Anders muttered, knowing the keen vampire hearing would pick it up. 

Mitchell huffed and stood up.  “I’m going out.  Don’t bother waiting up.”

Anders pressed his lips together, keeping his head bowed over his glass.  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mitchell grab his leather jacket, sling it over one shoulder, and stomp out of the apartment.  Anders jumped when Mitchell slammed the door behind him. 

In the sudden stillness of the empty apartment, Anders sighed.  He was sick of his family treating him like crap, and sick of Mitchell’s complaining.  Most of all, he was sick of Bragi’s incessant chatter constantly running in the back of his mind, a commentary on his life he didn’t want or need.  Well, he knew one way to fix that. 

He grabbed his coat, checked to make sure he had cash, and headed out the door.  He didn’t bother leaving a note.  If all went well, he’d be back and in bed asleep before Mitchell got home.

***

“You looking for a party?”  The girl leaned against his shoulder, but still had to yell to be heard over the thumping music of the nightclub. 

Anders smiled and nodded at her.  “You know anyone who can provide the refreshments?”

She returned the smile.  “Depends.  What do you want and how much?”

He flashed a bill at her, holding it up between two fingers.  “Just looking for a little candy.”

She held a hand out like she wanted to shake. He took it, and palmed the little bag of powder she passed him.  With her other hand, she snatched the bill and slid it into a pocket.  Now that the deal was done, she gave him an appraising look.  “Want some company?”

Anders thought about it for a second, he really did.  He wasn’t that mad at Mitchell, though.  That would be crossing a line, and there was no returning once he did.  He’d never cheated on Mitchell, and was certain Mitchell had never cheated on him.  They might be fighting tonight, but Mitchell would walk around and cool off.  Anders would do his little baggie of powder to make Bragi shut up, get a decent night’s sleep, and tomorrow his mood would be better.  They would make up and everything would be fine again. 

He shook his head at the woman and gave her a rueful smile.  “Maybe next time.”

“Your loss,” she said with a shrug.  Tapping a finger on the back of his hand, he told him, “Come see me again if you need a refill.”  Without waiting for an answer, she sauntered away.

Anders watched her go.  He was faithful, not dead, and still appreciated the female form.  When she was out of sight he downed his drink and left.

***

Back at home, Anders sat at the kitchen table and set up his equipment.  He hadn’t done this in a long time, and his hands were shaking in anticipation.  He wanted the rush, but more than that he wanted the blessed silence. 

He lit a candle and set it on the table to one side.  He emptied the powder on to a small mirror and then used a credit card to divide it into two piles.  He took the smaller pile and organized it into two lines.  The bigger pile he scooped into a bent spoon.  After he cooked it over the candle flame and readied the needle, he took his tie and jacket off, and rolled up one of his sleeves.  He wrapped his tie around his arm, just above the elbow, and jerked it tight.  When a vein popped out, he stuck the end of the tie into his mouth to keep the tension and grabbed the syringe.  He sucked a deep breath in past the tie and slid the needle into his arm.  Bragi growled curses which Anders ignored.

Discarding the syringe on the table, he switched the end of the tie from his mouth back to his hand.  He kept it pulled tight to prevent the drug from hitting his system, but it wasn’t foolproof.  His skin was already starting to flush hot when he bent his head to snort one of the lines. 

Anders threw his head back, sniffing and then drawing a breath in.  He shook his head and muttered, “Fuck, that burns.”

Something was wrong.  Instead of fading to the pleasant numbness and haze he was anticipating, the burning got worse.  He started to sweat and his eyes were watering so bad he couldn’t see.  He raised his hand to wipe at them, and dropped the end of the tie.  It fell off and landed on the floor as he pressed the heels of his hands against his cheeks, palms over his eyes.  It felt like he had snorted hot coals, and now they were stuck in his sinuses.  He wiped a hand under his nose and it came away covered in blood. 

He stared at it, watching his fingers twitch.  Was his nose bleeding?  Why was his nose bleeding?  That shouldn’t be happening.  His throat grew tight and it was getting harder to draw a breath.  He felt like his head might explode at any moment and Bragi was yammering in the back of his mind.  He pressed the heel of his hand against one eye and slurred, “Will you please shut the fuck up?”

Bragi started screaming and the hot coals turned into a roaring fire.  Anders couldn’t figure out what was wrong, what was happening, and the twitching got worse.  He couldn’t see, he couldn’t breathe, and he couldn’t think.  His eyes rolled back into his head and he was already unconscious when he fell out of the chair, hit the floor hard, and had a seizure. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Mitchell walked around for almost two hours before his temper started to cool.  He wasn’t mad at Anders, not exactly.  He just got so frustrated when Anders went along with whatever harebrained scheme his brothers concocted.  It inevitably went wrong, and Anders had to clean up the mess.  It left Anders tired and irritable, which in turn made Mitchell upset.

With a sigh, he turned his feet towards home.  Anders was probably passed out on the couch with an empty bottle.  He’d go home, pour Anders into bed, and join him.  He wasn’t looking forward to it though, and his steps dragged. 

Maybe they could take a break, go somewhere to get away for a weekend.  Anders might complain about needing to work, but it was all show.  They could go for a road trip, drive up the coast and see where they ended up.  The last time they did that, they ended up in the middle of nowhere, on a blanket watching the stars.  That night was some of the best sex Mitchell had ever had. 

The memory brought a smile to his face, and a spring to his steps as he approached the door.  He dug the key out of his skinny jeans with a curse, but brought his head up sharply.  He smelled blood, Anders’ blood, with that distinctive tang that being a vessel gave. 

After fumbling with the key for an eternity, he got the door open and stepped into the apartment.  He was already fuming.  He shouldn’t have left Anders alone when his brothers were being dickheads, but usually they left him alone for a few days once they got what they wanted.  The smells that assaulted him proved it wasn’t Anders’ family, though.  Vomit, wax, an acrid smell he couldn’t identify, and under it all the tang of Anders’ blood.  No one else had been here since he left.

“Anders?”  Mitchell shut the door behind him and took a step forward.  The change in angle showed a pair of feet in the kitchen.  “Anders!”

Mitchell rushed to where Anders was lying on the floor.  He took in the scene: the discarded paraphernalia on the table, the candle that had fallen on its side and thankfully gone out, the creamy white powder that was the source of the smell he didn’t recognize, the chair that had been knocked over.  But most of all, he saw Anders. 

Anders was face down, unconscious, and bleeding from his mouth and nose.  He’d thrown up but managed not to choke on it due to the way he was laying.  His tie was on the floor beside him and he was damp with sweat. 

“No, Jesus, no no no.”  Mitchell fell to his knees.  “Anders, baby, wake up.”

He carefully turned Anders over, and was almost boneless with relief when he heard breathing.  It was short-lived though.  The shallow little gasps, clammy skin, and thready heartbeat told Mitchell that Anders was dying. 

Mitchell jerked his phone out of his pocket.  He froze and stared at it.  Who would he call?  The ambulance wouldn’t be able to save Anders and they wouldn’t be here in time.  Mike wouldn’t answer the phone, not when they were done with whatever family business it was, not when he didn’t need anything from Anders.  Mitchell didn’t have Michele’s number, and there was no guarantee she would help anyway.  He was on his own.  He dropped the phone and peeled out of his jacket, discarding it to the side.  Black eyes and gleaming fangs flashed before he bit deeply into his own wrist. 

“Come on, baby.  Anders, wake up.  I need you to drink.”  Mitchel held his wrist to Anders’ mouth, smearing blood around before he managed to get it in position.

On the next weak inhale, Anders choked, coughing and spraying blood everywhere in a fine mist.  It went all over his face and shirt, and on the floor.

“Shit!”  Mitchell tried not to panic.  He pulled Anders into his lap, in a semi-sitting position.  Anders was limp, and the way he flopped around made Mitchell feel sick.  He propped Anders against his chest, letting the blond head fall back, and tried again.  

This time Anders didn’t choke.  He wasn’t actively drinking, but the blood had to be trickling down his throat from the angle. 

“There we go.  Drink a little more.”  Mitchell used his free hand to stroke Anders’ throat to try and get him to swallow, ignoring the way the pulse under his fingers was slowing.  He kept coaxing, “Just a little more.  You’ll be okay.  Drink up.”

Anders still wasn’t drinking, though.  He wasn’t responding at all. 

Mitchell felt a tear roll down his cheek.  He kept his bleeding wrist pressed to Anders’ lips, even after he heard Anders’ heart stop, even after Anders let out a breath and then just didn’t take another.  He held it there until it quit bleeding and healed.  Then he wrapped both arms around Anders’ chest and held the cooling body close. 

“It was enough.  It had to be enough,” Mitchell buried his face in the crook of Anders’ neck and whispered, “Please, please, baby.  It was enough.  Wake up for me.  Okay?  Don’t go.”

Even if Mitchell managed to get enough of his blood into Anders to cause the change, it wouldn’t happen immediately.  He didn’t want Anders to wake up on the floor, covered in his own blood and sick, surrounded by such a mess.  Becoming a vampire would be traumatic enough.  Anders didn’t need to be reminded of how he died. 

Mitchell got a dishcloth and dampened it.  He used it to carefully clean off Anders’ face and neck, making sure to get all of the blood specks washed away.  Anders didn’t like blood.  That would change when he woke as a vampire.  Meanwhile, Mitchell made sure it was gone.  He pulled off Anders’ shirt to wash his chest and arms, but the pants had missed most of the mess.  He set the towel aside so he could take Anders to bed.  It was hard carrying a slack body, but Mitchell managed to not drop him or slam his head into the wall. 

After cleaning Anders up and tucking him into bed, Mitchell cleaned the kitchen.  He got rid of all the shit that was on the table, scraping it into a bag.  He hesitated when he threw away the small baggie, but he knew the drug would overpower any other smells on the bit of plastic.  He’d never recognize the scent of whoever sold this to Anders.  It went into the trash bag with everything else. 

Once the kitchen was put to rights, he checked on Anders.  There was no change.  He threw a longing glance at the bathroom.  He wanted a shower but he wanted to be there if, no, when Anders woke up.  He grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, pulled a chair into the bedroom, and sat down to wait.

A part of him knew.  Logically, he knew it wouldn’t work.  He knew the blood he gave to Anders was too little, too late.  His heart refused to give up hope, though.  He couldn’t give up yet, not if there was the slightest chance. 

“Don’t do this to me.  Don’t leave me yet.  At least say goodbye,” Mitchell begged the silent form on the bed.  “You know I can see you, if this doesn’t work.  Don’t go.”

There was no reply, not from where Anders lay on the bed, and not from anywhere else. 

Mitchell looked around, still hoping that Anders was with him.  If he couldn’t have Anders as a vampire, he’d be happy with Anders the ghost.  In any form, any way at all, as long as Anders was still with him. 

“Anders, you can’t have gone yet.  I need you.”

Just in case he missed something, Mitchell rose and double-checked the kitchen.  There was nothing there, or in the living room, or the pantry, or the bathroom when he checked it out of desperation.  No one was there.  The apartment was empty except for him, and what he had to admit was the corpse of his love.  He went back to the bed and stood staring down at the empty husk Anders left behind. 

“How could you do this?  To yourself?  To us?  This wasn’t supposed to happen.  Not for years.  How could you do this?  You bastard!”  Mitchell’s voice rose until he was shouting. 

He stumbled back from the bed, tripping over his own feet.  He hit the floor hard and the pain was a jolt to his system.  He pulled his knees up, pressed his forehead against them, and started to cry. 

“I love you,” he choked out between sobs.  “You made me love you and then you left me.”

Mitchell cried until his throat was sore and his head ached.  He felt empty, like a hard wind would blow him away.  He wiped his eyes and sniffled. 

A thump outside heralded the arrival of the morning paper.  He’d been here with Anders’ corpse all night.  He had to admit that Anders was truly dead and gone.  Not even a ghost was left. 

He didn’t know what to do.  He felt numb and hollow, thinking foggy like his brain was packed in wool.  For lack of any other option, he rose and went to the front door, intending to get the paper. 

When he opened the front door, the middle aged man from across the hall was there, wearing a bathrobe and picking up his paper.  He looked up in surprise.

“You’re up early.”  The man looked closer.  “I thought I heard shouting earlier.  Is everything okay?”

Mitchell shook his head.  He felt like he was watching from outside of his own body when he heard himself say, “Anders is hurt.  Can I use your phone?”

The man – Mitchell couldn’t remember his name, Anders would know – looked startled.  He stepped back and opened the door wider.  “Of course.  Come in, the phone’s right over here.  Is something wrong with yours?”

Still on autopilot, Mitchell crossed the threshold and shut the door behind him.  In one swift move, he pinned the man up against the wall and hissed.  The man cried out in fear, so Mitchell slapped a hand over his mouth to silence him.  He tried to push Mitchell away, but it was like trying to move a wall.  Mitchell growled, jerked the man’s head to the side, and sank his fangs deep into the exposed throat. 


	3. Chapter 3

Time slipped. 

Mitchell was back in his apartment.  There was blood all over him, so he undressed.  He left his clothes on the floor in a trail to the bathroom.  He needed to remember to pick them up, or Anders would complain.  No, wait.  Anders would never complain about his slovenly ways again. 

He knew he had killed the man across the hall.  He couldn’t remember exactly what happened, though.  He bit the man, and then he was in his own bedroom heading into the shower.  That should probably concern him, but he didn’t have it in him to care. 

Pink water swirled away down the drain while he was contemplating how his emotions seemed to have died with Anders.  There was nothing there, only a great empty hole inside him.  The numbness would fade, and he knew there was nothing waiting for him but pain.  That’s okay.  He’d be long gone from here before that happened. 

Once he was clean, he stepped out of the shower and got dressed.  He brushed his teeth to wash away the lingering taste of blood.  He was used to feeding only from Anders.  The blood of a plain human was wrong somehow.  Like someone who was used to drinking regular soda, and someone gave him a diet soda instead.  It would do, it worked, but he wasn’t used to the taste. 

Mitchell looked around the apartment.  There was nothing here for him now.  He put his boots and jacket on, grabbed his cigarettes from the counter, and went to the bedroom.  He hesitated before he opened the top drawer of the dresser.  Inside was one of Anders’ sketchbooks.  He opened it and tore out the small drawing Anders had done of him.  He dropped the book back without bothering to shut the drawer. 

From the top of the dresser, he took a picture out of the frame.  He stared at it for a long moment.  It was one he had taken of Anders.  Anders was laughing at him, nose crinkled and hair tousled, eyes shining and dimples on full display.  Mitchell squeezed his eyes shut against the memories.  He sighed and opened them, folded the picture and drawing together, and carefully tucked them into his wallet.  Crossing the bedroom, he stopped beside the bed.  He looked down at Anders. 

If there was any hope left, it died as Mitchell studied the body.  That is all it was now: a body.  There was no spark of life, or undeath, or anything at all.  This was nothing more than an empty husk, nothing more than meat now.  Anders was gone. 

Mitchell ran a hand through his wet hair.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been around a body like this.  All the bodies he’d been around are ones he had directly created.  Anders was the only person to die in his arms that he had not murdered.  Or at least, not drained of blood.  He knew Anders was upset and having a rough time, and he had left anyway.  His hands were not completely clean when it came to Anders’ death. 

“I’m sorry.  I should have been here for you.  I shouldn’t have left.  I love you,” Mitchell told the corpse.  “I always will.”  He smoothed Anders’ hair back and ran the back of his hand across Anders’ cheek.  He pulled the sheet up, covering Anders’ face, and left the bedroom.

He stopped in the living room and looked around.  His life here was over.  Anders was the only thing tethering him to humanity, and that tie was broken.  He took his lighter out of his pocket and idly flicked the wheel, watching sparks fly from the flint and the little flame catch.  He could burn the building to the ground, destroy it and salt the earth.  It would be fitting to have a barren patch here now, where there used to be love and laughter. 

There had to be something to make it burn quicker.  Vodka would probably do the job.  Mitchell looked up, intending to find something, but instead his gaze stopped on Anders’ fish tank.  Anders loved those fucking fish, pampering them and talking to them like they were friends.  They didn’t deserve to be boiled alive, and Mitchell couldn’t take them with him. 

Mitchell stuck the lighter back into his pocket.  He sighed and whispered, “How could you do this to us?  And you didn’t even say goodbye.”

Before he left the apartment, he paused with his hand on the doorknob.  He was wrong.  He wasn’t completely numb.  He could still feel something aside from pain. 

Rage, deep and bitter.  Over that was a layer of never-ending, burning thirst. 

Now he knew where he was going.  He left the apartment without looking back. 


	4. Chapter 4

Mike’s bar was closed.  It was still early morning, so that wasn’t too surprising.  Mitchell knocked on the door and waited, but couldn’t hear anything from inside.  He went around the building, to the back entrance, but his knock wasn’t answered there either.  He pounded on the door with his fist hard enough to make it rattle in the frame. 

“They aren’t in there,” a voice said from behind him. 

Mitchell struggled not to let his eyes flash black.  When he had it under control, he turned around.  A bum was standing by the corner of the building, watching him. 

“Do you know where they are?” 

The bum tilted his head and said, “I don’t have to answer your questions.”

Mitchell cocked an eyebrow.  “Is that so?”

The bum gave him a belligerent glare.

“I’m asking nicely.”  Mitchell tried smiling.  It felt like his face might crack and break, but he managed. 

“I don’t care.”  The bum continued giving him the stink-eye.  

The smile fell from Mitchell’s face.  He sighed, and that’s when he caught the scent.  He spat, “God vessel.” 

That made the bum quit glaring.  He looked alarmed when Mitchell took a step in his direction, and hurried around the corner out of sight. 

Mitchell didn’t care.  He’d drag the vessel back into the alley and get the information he wanted one way or another.  However, the bum was gone when he turned the corner.  He snarled in frustration.  “Fucking god shit.”

He didn’t know where Axl or Ty lived.  There was someone who did, though.  He started walking. 

Soon enough, Mitchell found himself in an alley across the street from JPR.  He was at an angle that let him see in through the front window as he smoked a cigarette.

Dawn was at her desk, flipping through a file.  She had a little frown when she turned to the computer and tapped on a few keys.  Nothing in her body language indicated she knew anything was amiss. 

It was wrong.  Mitchell’s entire world had crumbled, and Dawn was sitting there waiting for Anders to come to work.  She was living in a world where Anders was still alive, and Mitchell hated her for it.  He hated everyone, going to work and walking their dogs and getting breakfast like nothing happened.  He hated the sun for rising, shining merrily as if the light in Mitchell’s life hadn’t been permanently extinguished.  The world, the entire universe should be mourning with him.

He watched as he sucked another drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke trail from his mouth to be inhaled through his nose.  He could go ask Dawn where Ty and Axl lived.  She would know.  Really, all Mitchell needed was to know where Axl was.  As much as he wanted to tear apart every single one of the Johnson clan, killing Axl would do the trick.  He didn’t give a shit if the entire country fell apart and sank into the ocean, as long as the Johnsons died before he did.  He could die happy knowing the entire Johnson clan, hell, the entire Norse pantheon, was dead and gone.  Everyone who had ever raised a hand or said a cross word to his Anders destroyed.

Dawn could make that happen.  Except Anders loved Dawn.  He’d never said so, but Mitchell could see it every time Anders spoke of her.  He respected her, and counted her among his true friends.  He’d done his best to protect her from the ugliness of the supernatural parts of life. 

If Mitchell went in there, he wasn’t sure if Dawn would still be alive when he left.  He didn’t know if he could have a normal conversation with her.  If she asked about Anders, he would break down.  If she said anything about Anders, criticizing him because she thought he was late or hung over, it would cause Mitchell to snap.  Dawn would not survive that.  Neither would anyone else who walked in on them. 

Then again, killing Dawn might bring the Johnson clan right to him.  All he had to do was make it obvious he was the one who killed her.  Ty would be furious and insist Mike hunt him down.  But if that happened, the Johnsons would be on high alert.  They’d be expecting an attack, and Mitchell didn’t know if he would be able to take on Odin in full warrior mode. 

Mitchell took another drag off his cigarette, ignoring the way his hands were starting to shake.  Inside, Dawn answered the phone and wrote something on the little message pad.  She took the note and left his line of sight, presumably to drop the message on Anders’ desk. 

Anders had cared about Dawn.  Even when she had been at her worst, he had still cared about her.  That helped Mitchell make up his mind.  He dropped his cigarette, leaving the butt smoldering in the alley as he walked away. 

He didn’t know where he was going.  He didn’t know what he was going to do.  He shut his mind off and kept his feet moving.  He walked until his legs ached, and kept going.  It wasn’t until he noticed the lack of cars that he paid any attention to where he was. 

He’d reached the industrial section on the edge of town.  After a glance around, he turned and headed to an abandoned factory.  He skirted around it until he found a hole in the fence so he could duck through.  The big delivery doors were chained shut, but there was enough slack to make entry easy for a slim vampire. 

It wasn’t completely empty.  There were several barrels in a cluster to one side of the door, and wooden crates beside them.  On the other side of the door was a stack of pallets. 

Mitchell picked around and found an old broom.  He held it in one hand and brought his heel down on the stick, breaking it with a sharp crack.  He took it with him and sat down with his back against one of the barrels.  He rolled his improvised stake between his palms for a long minute before setting the jagged end against his chest. 

One quick thrust and he could be done with all of this.  All the heartbreak, the anguish, the loneliness would be gone.  No more pain and he could be with Anders forever. 

Mitchell paused.  Would he?  If he died, would he be with Anders?  It isn’t like an Irish vampire would be destined for Valhalla.  Besides, wouldn’t he have to die in battle to get to Valhalla?  For that matter, where was Anders?  How many afterlives were there?  Where would Anders be? 

He stared at the stake, pressing it harder against his chest until it caused a little dimple in his shirt.  It was a roll of the dice, really.  Stake himself and be done with everything, and possibly be with Anders.  The odds were that wherever Anders was now, vampires would not be welcome.  When Mitchell died, he doubted he’d be welcomed into any version of heaven.  He had much to answer for. 

Mitchell threw the stake, not bothering to watch where it landed with a loud clatter.  He was a coward.  He couldn’t do it.  It would be the best thing to do for everyone, but he couldn’t. 

He laid down on his side, pulling his knees up until he was in a fetal position.  He managed to hold out for a few minutes until the first fat tear leaked from his eye, tracking across his temple into his hair.  After that the dam broke and he started sobbing.  He was still crying when he fell asleep. 


	5. Chapter 5

“Go away!”

The shout jerked Mitchell back into wakefulness. 

A man was standing a short distance away, clutching a bag and glaring.  When he saw Mitchell was awake, he bared his teeth and growled.  Rather, he bared what was left of them.  The man had that alcoholic homeless look, and could have been anywhere from twenty to sixty years old.  From the shape of the paper bag he was clinging to for dear life, there was a bottle of some sort in it. 

Mitchell sat up and rubbed a hand over his face.  He must have been really out of it for a human to get so close.  His head hurt and his eyes felt like sandpaper when he blinked.  “What?”

“This is my place.  I sleep here.  Not you.  Get out.”  The man glowered. 

“It seems like there’s enough room for two,” Mitchell pointed out, waving a hand around the huge warehouse. 

The man made a moue of distaste.  “I’m not sleeping with a stranger.”

Mitchell huffed.  “I’m not in the mood for this shit.”

“Go away.”  The man pointed at Mitchell and then to the door. 

“Well, it isn’t exactly breakfast in bed, but it will have to do.”  Mitchell stood up and stretched. 

The man started to say something else, but then Mitchell was there, too fast for the human eye to track. 

Mitchell spun the man around, wrapped an arm around his chest, and bit the man’s throat.  The man shouted, but they were in the middle of nowhere.  There was no one to help.  Mitchell jerked the man closer, biting down to increase the blood flow.  The man started to struggle, and Mitchell released him and stepped back. 

“Jesus, you must be at least a quarter rotgut alcohol.  That’s disgusting.”  Mitchell spit, trying to get the taste out of his mouth. 

The man pressed a hand against his throat, but it slipped in the blood and he couldn’t get pressure on the wound.  He looked at Mitchell with wide eyes before he fell to his knees.

“I’d warn you to sober up before your liver gives out, but I don’t think that’s something you need to worry about anymore.”  Mitchell wiped his mouth and checked his shirt.  It was still clean.  Good, since he didn’t have a change of clothes.  There was no way he’d put on the filthy rag the bum was wearing. 

It was ruined, anyway.  Blood was pouring from the wound in the man’s neck, and he couldn’t stop it.  He still had a surprised expression when he fell to the side.  He was still alive, but wouldn’t last much longer.

Mitchell didn’t bother watching.  He’d seen this show before, countless times.  He’d see it countless times again.  He walked a short distance away and pulled out his phone.  He dialed a number from memory, held the phone to his ear, and waited. 

“You’ve reached Anders Johnson, JPR.  Leave a message and I’ll get back to you,” Anders’ voice came through the phone. 

Mitchell didn’t leave a message.  He knew Anders wouldn’t be calling anyone back.  He dialed the number and listened again before he tucked the phone back in his pocket. 

He couldn’t stay here.  Not in the warehouse and not just because of the now dead bum.  He couldn’t stay in this country.  If he did, he would wind up killing Dawn, the Johnsons, and everyone else he saw.  Anders would not want him to descend into a mindless killing machine.  And Mitchell hated to admit it, but Anders wouldn’t want him to kill his brothers, either. 

He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, eyeballing the body on the floor.  The bum still looked surprised.  Guess he wasn’t planning on dying today.  Too bad for him, then.  Mitchell decided it wasn’t worth rifling through the body’s pockets.  Even if the bum had anything of value, it was probably soaked in blood by now.  If not, it was certainly soaked in filth. 

He knew where he needed to go, now.  He slipped out of the chained doors and started walking. 

***

Mitchell cut through the crowd in the club, not stopping until he got to a door located in the back.  He leaned closer to the bouncer, but didn’t bother raising his voice to say, “I need to see your boss.”

The bouncer didn’t move, except a flicker of his eyes.  “Password?”

Mitchell shrugged.  “No idea.”

“She’s not in.”  The bouncer went back to staring ahead. 

Mitchell leaned into the bouncer’s line of sight and allowed his eyes to bleed black.  “I think she’ll see me.”

The bouncer blinked, his own eyes flashing black for a split second.  “I don’t know you.”

“Right.  I’m not really a part of the community here.”  There was a reason for that.  Mitchell wanted nothing to do with the vampire community.  He was tired of the backstabbing and infighting, for one.  Right now, the community would be helpful, though. 

“Name?”

“John Mitchell.”

The bouncer raised a hand to his ear and murmured something.  He looked at Mitchell and nodded his head before he stepped aside and opened the door.  “Down the hall, third door on your left.”

Mitchell passed the bouncer without further acknowledgement.  The door closed behind him, leaving him in a dimly lit hallway.  It was soundproofed, but he could still feel the heavy thump of the bass through the floor.  The third door on the left was ajar, with a bright light beaming out of the crack. 

“Hello?”  Mitchell pushed open the door and stepped inside. 

It was a plain room, with an old metal desk in the middle.  There was a filing cabinet in the corner that had an ivy struggling for life on top of it.  There was nothing on the desk but a day planner and a pencil.  There were two chairs, one behind the desk and one in front of it.  In the chair behind the desk sat a small, stunningly beautiful woman smiling at him.  Her teeth were a sharp white contrast against her dark features, even more so against the black lipstick she wore.  She made no hostile moves, but she didn’t need to.  Mitchell could feel her age pressing on him, grinding down into his bones.  If she felt like it, she could swat him like a fly.  He found it hard to care, but he came here to ask for help.  He needed to be polite. 

“Thank you for agreeing to see me.”  He stopped in front of the desk.  He waited until she gestured before he sat down. 

“Your reputation precedes you, Mitchell.”  Her expression didn’t change, but there was a tone in her voice that made the words sound cold. 

“Call me John, please.”  He ignored the pang of hearing his name in Anders’ accent.

“What can I do for you, John?”

“I want to leave the country.  The sooner the better.”

She relaxed just a fraction and asked, “Where do you want to go?”

Interesting.  She must have thought he was there to challenge her authority.  If he still had the backing of Herrick, it might have been a formidable fight.  He shrugged.  “I don’t care, as long as it’s tonight.”

Leaning forward, she tapped a long nail on the desk.  “Do I need to send a cleanup crew somewhere?  I assure you, we can make any problems disappear.”

“No, I just need a change of scenery.”  Mitchell smiled at her. 

It must not have been very convincing, because a tiny frown marred the perfection of her forehead.  She looked at him a long moment before it cleared.  “Ah, I see.  It’s always difficult to lose a mortal if we grow too close to them.”

The smile on Mitchell’s face shattered like glass.  “Can you help me, or not?”

She raised a hand in peace.  “Of course.”

She pulled a phone out of a drawer and made a few calls.  Mitchell waited, trying to disguise his impatience. 

Finally she looked up and smiled at him.  “Arrangements have been made.  Go here.”  She jotted an address down on a blank corner of the day planner, ripped it off, and passed it to him. 

He took the paper and stood up.  “I appreciate it.”

“It’s no problem.”  She hesitated before continuing.  “John, if I may be so bold as to offer advice?”

He cocked an eyebrow.  “Yes?”

“Mortals are intriguing, and can be entertaining pets.  There’s only one way to keep them with you on a long term basis, though.”  She gave him a meaningful look with gleaming black eyes. 

Mitchell had to swallow hard past the surge of bitterness in his throat.  “It doesn’t always work.”

“Then I’m sorry for your loss.”  Her eyes went back to normal and she looked down at her phone, effectively dismissing him from the conversation. 

He left the club without looking back. 

Two hours later he was in the passenger cabin on a cargo ship, along with two big coolers full of blood bags.  It wouldn’t do to eat the crew.  There was a small shelf of books, along with a television and DVD player.  Next to that was a rack of DVDs.  He didn’t know where he was going, but he knew it would take roughly a month to get there.  He was as prepared for the trip as he could be.

He stood and watched through the window as the lights on shore receded.  He sighed and leaned his forehead against the glass.  He pulled his phone out and thumbed a button.

“You’ve reached Anders Johnson, JPR.  Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

The crew was mostly Filipino, with two men from France, and a Russian captain.  The common language was English, albeit heavily accented and sometimes indecipherable.  They were friendly enough and didn’t ask any questions.  Mitchell had to join them for meals, both to keep up appearances and he ate to try to keep his thirst under control.  He didn’t know if they knew what he was, but there was no sense tempting fate.  They didn’t ask for his name, but the first time they heard him talk they gave him a nickname: Irish. 

Aside from the communal meals and occasional trips around the deck to stave off cabin fever, Mitchell stayed in his room.  It was a cargo ship, and didn’t have any of the stabilizers that the cruise ships have, but most of the time there was a pleasant rolling motion.  They ran into a few patches of choppy waves that made him feel sick, and he was thankful they didn’t last long.  He spent most of the time reading or watching movies.  He’d glance out of the windows sometimes, but the blue of the water in daylight was painful to see.  The color brought up too many memories of laughing blue eyes.  It was easier at night.  

They stopped at a few ports, dropping off and picking up big shipping containers.  Mitchell stayed out of the way, but it was interesting to watch the cranes move the massive containers around and stack them like a child with blocks.  When they stayed at a port overnight, he left the ship with the crew, joining them in whatever dive bar they found.  He’d always separate from them after a few hours of shooting pool or playing darts, slipping back on to the ship in the early morning.  They teased him about being a lady killer.  Since he left a dead body behind each time, he didn’t disagree.  Pointing out that they were not only women would have been arguing semantics.   

Now he was standing on the deck, watching as the lights of the city ahead reflected in the water.  One of the crew joined him, offering Mitchell a cigarette.  He accepted and they smoked in silence for a moment. 

“This is your stop, eh Irish?  I bet you’ll be glad to be back on dry land,” the crewman remarked. 

Mitchell shrugged.  In truth, it had been easy to be on the ship.  He didn’t have to make any decisions about anything.  He’d been able to shut down and not think.  Now that he was here, he’d have to start figuring things out and he didn’t know if he was ready to do that.  If he started thinking again, he’d have to think about the past as well as the future.  He’d have to face his new reality.  He’d have to accept a world without Anders.

“Whatcha gonna do first?  I want a steak, extra rare, with a bourbon.  The beef here is always great,” the crewman rhapsodized. 

“Extra rare sounds good,” Mitchell murmured.  They weren’t talking about the same type of bloody meat, but no need for the crewman to know that.  “What port is this?”

The crewman gave him a funny look, but didn’t ask why Mitchell didn’t know where he was going.  “Charleston.”

Mitchell gave him a blank look and a shrug. 

“South Carolina.  Welcome to America, Irish.”

Well, he said he’d wanted to get far away, and as fast as possible.  This fit the bill.  Mitchell flicked his cigarette butt over the side of the ship, watching it tumble through the air until it hit the water.  He told the crewman goodbye and headed to his cabin.  He didn’t have anything to take with him, but he wanted to make sure it was clear of anything incriminating.  He cleaned up, moving on autopilot, and then sat on the end of the bed to wait for the ship to dock.

***

Women were harder, when he was hunting.  Most of them had been raised on stranger danger, watch your drink or you might get roofied, don’t go walking alone in the dark or you might get mugged, go to the bathroom with your friends because there may be a crazed rapist.  They would be willing to flirt and talk in the bar, but reluctant to leave with someone they just met.  Of course there were exceptions, but that was the rule for most.  Mitchell had a long list of numbers he had been given, which he would never call.

Men, though, men were different.  They were raised to believe they were predators at the top of the food chain.  They thought they were the ones to pick the target and give chase.  It made them blind to an actual hunter in their midst.  Not that this was hunting.  All Mitchell did was shift his weight, twitching his ass in tight skinny jeans while he leaned over the bar to place his order, then lean back and wait.  It never failed.

That’s how he found himself in a stranger’s car thirty minutes before the bar closed, on the way to the guy’s place. 

Mitchell ran a finger over the dash and said, “Nice car.”

“Thanks, yeah, it’s the new Challenger SRT Hellcat.  Gas mileage could be better, but she’ll fly on the highway when you open her up.”

Mitchell made a noncommittal noise.  The guy could have started speaking ancient Sumerian and it would have made about as much sense.  He didn’t know anything about cars beyond where to add the fuel and which petal to push to make it go.  He studied the guy’s profile as he pretended to listen. 

The guy was good looking, in that bland cream cheese sort of way.  Tall, strong jaw, short brown hair, broad shoulders.  He was the kind that probably dated the head cheerleader in high school until he figured out he was gay, came out in college, might be looking for that special someone now before he got too old for the bar scene. 

The guy figured out Mitchell was staring at him and not listening, and blushed as he said, “What is it?”

Instead of answering, Mitchell asked, “What’s your name again?”

“Michael.  Mike.”  Mike looked like he didn’t know if he should be offended or amused. 

Mitchell leaned over and ran his hand up the inside of Mike’s leg.  “How far away do you live, Mike?”

Mike eyes flickered to Mitchell’s hand and he swallowed hard before answering.  “Right up here, a few blocks away.”

“Good.”  Mitchell leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.  God, he was tired.  Could you get something like jet lag when you were traveling by boat? 

The car stopped in front of a neat, manicured lawn.  In the middle of it was a small house, not new, but well maintained.  It was hard to tell in the moonlight, but it looked to be tan with dark brown trim.  It was unsurprising that someone like Mike lived there. 

Mike led the way up the walk, unlocking the door as he unnecessarily said, “This is it.  Home sweet home.”  He took a step in and held the door open.

“Are you inviting me in?”  Mitchell stuck his hands in his back pockets and gave Mike a smile. 

“By all means, please come in.”  Mike made a sweeping bow with a little grin. 

Mitchell sauntered across the threshold and waited for Mike to close the door.  As soon as the bolt clicked home, Mike had his back against the wall, kissing him roughly.  The abruptness of it was a bit off-putting, but Mitchell went along with it for a minute before he leaned back enough to whisper, “Bedroom?”

“This way.”  Mike grabbed Mitchell’s hand and pulled him down a hallway.

Mitchell glanced around briefly before Mike pushed him down on the bed.  The room was just as bland as the house, and so impersonal he wondered if it might be a guest room.  It didn’t matter, though.  What mattered was Mike, who was kissing him deeply enough that it was a good thing he didn’t need to breathe. 

“Impatient?” Mitchell asked, turning his head a bit.  It felt like Mike was trying to swallow him whole.  This was passing off-putting and starting to edge towards disgusting.    

Mike slid a hand under Mitchell’s shirt, kissed his jaw, and murmured, “I can’t wait to be inside of you.”

“I don’t bottom,” Mitchell said. 

“Come on.  I’ll make you feel good.”  Mike nibbled on Mitchell’s earlobe. 

“I don’t bottom for anyone,” Mitchell said flatly, silently adding _not anymore._  

Mike stopped mouthing at Mitchell’s ear and raised his head to look at him.  “Then we might have a problem, since I don’t like to bottom either.”

Mitchell ignored the note of challenge in Mike’s voice, cocked a leg, and rolled them on the bed.  He straddled Mike’s waist and rocked back, grinding against the hard warmth he felt.  He didn’t know if Mike was ignoring how unaroused he was, but it didn’t matter.  He leaned down and smiled at Mike.  “It won’t be a problem, I promise.”

“Oh yeah?”  Now Mike sounded breathless and he let his hands rest on Mitchell’s waist. 

“Yeah.”  Mitchell placed a tender kiss on Mike’s neck before sinking his fangs into the artery under the skin. 

Mike made a strangled gasping noise and started to struggle.  He had leverage and was strong enough to lift Mitchell’s hips up, but was no match for a vampire’s strength.  He couldn’t pry Mitchell off of him, or dislodge the feeding vampire.  His struggles quickly weakened, and his hands fell limply to the side.  He twitched a few more times as if he was still trying to fight, but then died with a quiet moan. 

Mitchell rolled away and splayed on his back.  God, it felt good to feed and take his time with it.  It was nice to not have to rush or be stuck drinking the bagged blood on the ship anymore.  His head was swimming as he looked over at the corpse next to him.  With a tired laugh, he said, “See?  No problem.”

He sat up and pulled his boots off, letting them fall to the floor.  He eyed Mike before getting off the bed.  He was exhausted and the corpse of a large man was just too much to try and dispose of right now.  He took the comforter and folded it over Mike, and then flipped the whole body burrito on to the floor beside the bed.  The bed was still mostly clean, except one spot where blood had leaked through.  Whatever, he’d slept in worse. 

“Sorry, but a man’s got to have his standards.  Sleeping with a dead body in the bed is across that line,” Mitchell told the corpse as he undressed.  He left his clothes in a pile on the floor, on the opposite side of the bed from Mike.  He crawled into bed and under the sheet with a sigh.

He’d figure things out tomorrow.  Right now he was heartsick and alone in an unfamiliar country.  He was tired and sluggish from feeding, and just wanted to rest for a while.  He laid on his back with one arm over his eyes and told the empty room, “I miss you, Anders.  I can’t believe you left me like that.”

Of course there was no answer.  He ignored the hollow ache in his chest and rolled over to try and sleep. 

 


	7. Chapter 7

After dozing in fits and starts and tossing and turning, Mitchell finally gave up on trying to sleep.  A glance at the clock showed it was mid-afternoon.  He rolled out of the bed and went in search of the bathroom. 

The rest of the house was as bland as everything else.  Neat, tidy, and impersonal.  He wondered if maybe Mike had another house somewhere else, a place that was lived in with the normal detritus of a human life.  Maybe he had a cozy little home in the suburbs somewhere, complete with wife, two kids, and a dog.  Maybe this was Mike’s little love nest, a dirty secret where he took his random shameful hookups while his wife thought he was away on business.  Or maybe Mike was alone and this was the place he simply existed, waiting to die.  Mitchell could appreciate that sentiment. 

Mitchell found the bathroom and took a shower.  He used the available soap, relieved that it didn’t smell like anything familiar.  He didn’t bother looking in the mirror when he got out, because he knew what was there: nothing. 

Still naked, he went to the kitchen and found something to eat.  He wasn’t too hungry since he fed last night, but food would keep the need for blood to a minimum.  He hadn’t moved to the other side of the world to start drawing unwanted attention.  He ate what might have been the world’s most pretentious PB&J – organic peanut butter with artisan strawberry preserves on slices of homemade wheat bread.  Whatever, it was good and would keep him satisfied. 

He went to the bedroom and pulled on his jeans.  He inspected his shirt and gave it a sniff.  It wasn’t too bad yet, but it would need a wash within a day or two.  He went ahead and put it on, but then went into Mike’s closet.  The clothes were as bland as everything else, but he grabbed a couple of shirts.  He and Mike were close enough in size that they would work.  The pants wouldn’t fit right, though.  Mike’s legs were shorter. 

He threw the shirts over his shoulder and did a cursory search of the house.  He found a wad of cash in the top dresser drawer and stuck it in his pocket.  There were a few bits of jewelry, but he didn’t know if it was real or not.  Trying to fence it might be more trouble than it was worth.  There was also a credit card that he didn’t bother touching.  That would definitely be too much of a hassle. 

Staying here was out of the question.  Not just this house, but this city.  The vampire who had arranged for his journey knew who he was and where he landed.  The ship’s crew didn’t ask for his name, but would recognize a description.  He didn’t think any of them meant him harm, and as far as he knew no one was looking for him.  Even so, he didn’t want to be found by anyone at all, friend or foe.  He wanted to disappear somewhere in a place he could be anonymous and forget about everything. 

Of course, he didn’t know if these precautions would work if the Johnson clan decided to come hunt him down.  He didn’t know if their godly powers would work so far away from their homeland, but if they did, so be it.  Let them come.  He’d be waiting, and nothing would stop him from destroying them once and for all.  He shook his head and retracted his fangs, which had dropped when his anger rose.  No sense in getting worked up about something that might not happen. 

Under the surface emotions, he had a deep well of emptiness.  He was numb, and still expected to turn a corner and see Anders.  It was too cruel for him to have just been taken away like that.  Then again, maybe losing the love of his live was some sort of karmic justice.  It would be no more than he deserved. 

He looked over at the corpse rolled in the blanket on the floor.  “No hard feelings.  It wasn’t personal.  Sorry, Mike.”

There was no response, of course.  It looked like Mike’s spirit hadn’t hung around for recriminations.  Was Mike somewhere with Anders right now?  Anders would be disappointed to learn that Mitchell had started killing again.  That thought layered a sheen of guilt over the emotional numbness. 

“Well, you should have stuck around and maybe I wouldn’t be killing,” Mitchell whispered.  Yes, he knew he was talking to his dead boyfriend, but maybe Anders could hear him somehow. 

He left the room without bothering to do anything about the body.  Someone would find it eventually and take care of it. 

The car keys were on a table by the door where Mike had dropped them before getting all handsy.  Mitchel grabbed them and locked the door on his way out. 

The car roared to life with a twist of the key, and the gas tank was full.  He pressed the gas, gunning it a couple of times just to hear the engine purr.  This was the one part of Mike’s life that wasn’t dull, and Mitchell appreciated it. 

He kept to the speed limit, retracing the path back to the bar where he met Mike, and from there he was able to follow signs to the highway.  He didn’t have any destination in mind, and took the first entrance ramp he could find.  He wound up heading southwest, away from the beach and chasing the sunset. 

Maybe he could find his own anonymous, bland, little house where he could exist until he found the courage to die. 

 


	8. Chapter 8

The bland guy hadn’t lied when he said that his car would fly.  Not that Mitchell opened it up too much.  If he got pulled over in the stolen car of a dead man, he’d have to do something about it.  Killing a police officer would be entirely too much hassle without a support system to cover it up so he kept to the speed limit, more or less. 

He didn’t know where to go.  He followed the freeway down the coast a bit before turning more west.  Nothing that he passed appealed to him.  He blew through dozens of small towns without stopping.  Tiny towns where nosy neighbors knew everyone’s business would be a nightmare.  He wanted a place he could get lost. 

There were a few stops along the way.  The car needed gas, of course.  Mitchell needed to eat, as well as feed.  He picked up a driver at a truck stop in Alabama, followed the man back to the sleeping compartment of his giant rig, and dozed there for a couple of hours after feeding.  The driver had a significant amount of money in a cigar box stuffed under a seat.  He took it with him but didn’t bother doing anything about the body.  It would be found soon enough.

The terrain changed as he drove.  It went from forests to rolling fields, and then to murky ponds and trees covered in Spanish moss.  He decided to exit at the next town and look around.  He’d come a fair distance from the port where he got off the ship.  Even if someone was looking for him, it would be hard to track him to here. 

‘Here’ turned out to be New Orleans.  He’d heard about it, of course. Who hasn’t?  This was the first time he’d been, though.  He followed the signs to the French Quarter, parked, and took a walk. 

It was definitely a change from what he was used to seeing.  Historical buildings stood next to dive bars and new restaurants.  He could tell the locals, who were walking around holding drinks and calling to each other, from the tourists who were all looking around with wonder.  He knew he was doing the same thing, but didn’t care.  It was a busy night and he heard at least four different languages, one of which he didn’t recognize.

One thing he didn’t sense at all was any traces of other vampires.  Granted, most of them tried to be discreet, and they could blend in with humans when they wished.  They could tell when another spent much time in one spot, though.  Maybe there was no other vampires here because it had become a cliché in modern folklore.  There had been movies and books galore about vampires in New Orleans. 

Mitchell didn’t care about being trite or unoriginal, though.  He cared about being left alone.  With the steady flow of tourists through the city, he wouldn’t stand out too much.  They could also prove to be a quick and easy supply of blood.  He could be careful and stretch out the time between feedings, only choosing victims that wouldn’t be easily missed. 

Anders would have loved this place.  A trio of women walked by, all dressed up for a night on the town, and one eyeing Mitchell up and down before turning away with a sniff.  He could imagine Anders giving him a hard time about his clothes and needing a shower.  The thought made him smile and want to cry at the same time.  But it also helped him make up his mind. 

He went back to the car and drove around until he found a part of town that seemed disreputable.  He cruised around for a while until he found a park with a group of men standing in the dark.  They watched him drive by with hard eyes, and he pulled over a few blocks away.  He left the car by the side of the road, unlocked and with the keys in the ignition.  It would probably be stolen within an hour, and in pieces by this time tomorrow.  They could dispose of it better than he could.

Tomorrow he’d find a place to rent, preferably a place that would accept cash and ask no questions.  After that he could find a job.  Places always needed busboys or janitors.  Tonight, though, he’d explore his new city.

***

New Orleans seemed to be a city made of contradictions.  There were new homes built next to abandoned ones, elaborate Victorians next to ramshackle huts.  There were big chain restaurants a few blocks away from diners advertising soul food or gumbo.  It was bigger than he expected, too.  He walked long enough for his feet to start to ache, and found himself in a neighborhood that was old and looked to be on the lower end of the class scale.  The homes and businesses were well maintained, though, with walls and fences clean of graffiti.  The exception was outside of a diner that had a beautiful mural depicting a man playing a trumpet, cheeks puffed out and eyes squeezed shut.  There was also a steaming bowl of what he guessed was shrimp gumbo and what had to be the Louisiana state flag.  A light above it made it look like it belonged in a museum somewhere.

The diner was open, and it was that time of night where it was too late to be night but still not morning yet.  He dropped a few coins into the vending rack and pulled out a newspaper, tucked it under his arm, and went inside. 

A few customers were scattered here and there, and a tired looking waitress was topping off a cup of coffee for a man sitting at the long counter.  They both turned when the bell on the door chimed.

The waitress waved her free hand.  “Go on and sit wherever you want, sugar.” 

Mitchell chose a booth and slid into it, facing the door.  He set the newspaper down on the bench beside him and plucked a menu from where they were tucked behind a napkin holder.  It didn’t hold any surprises, listing the typical late night diner fare offered anywhere else. 

“Coffee?”  The waitress brought the pot and a cup at Mitchell’s nod.  “We got blueberry pancakes on special.  Made with fresh berries, and comes with a side of pig, too.”

Mitchell looked up and raised an eyebrow at that.  “Pig?”

“Bacon, sausage, or a pork chop for a little extra.  You need cream for your coffee?”

“No thanks.  I’ll take the pancakes with bacon, though.”  Carbs and fats would help keep his need for blood under control. 

She nodded and headed towards the kitchen. 

The man sitting at the counter turned to face Mitchell.  “You don’t sound like you’re from around here.”  His short hair and stubble were all gray, and against his dark skin it glinted silver as he talked.  A cane was leaning against the counter next to his leg, and he looked to be almost as old as Mitchell actually was. 

“No sir, I’m not.  I think I may stay for a while, though.”  Mitchell took a cautious sip of his coffee and grimaced.  It was so strong a spoon would stand up in it and had an unfamiliar taste. 

The man on the stool wheezed out a laugh.  “That’s the chicory.  Where abouts are you staying?”

Mitchell dumped sugar into his coffee and gave it a stir, almost expecting the spoon to have eroded when he pulled it out.  He patted the newspaper next to him.  “I don’t have a place yet, but I was going to look.”

“Bet you don’t have a job yet either.”  The man narrowed his eyes.  “Do you have any money at all?”

Did the old guy expect him to rob the diner?  Mitchell didn’t know if he should be amused or offended.  He knew he looked rough from being in a car for the past couple of days, but he didn’t know he looked that bad.  “I have enough to get by until I find work.”

The waitress came back and grabbed the coffee pot again.  As she was refilling the man’s cup, she said, “Oscar, leave him alone.  You think everyone who comes in that door owes you a story.”

Oscar flapped a hand to shoo her away.  “I’m too damn old to go out and make any more stories of my own.  I got to live vicariously through someone, and you don’t tell me anything juicy.”  He dropped a conspiring wink at Mitchell. 

“Yeah, well, I’m too damn tired to have any juicy stories to tell.”  The waitress held up the coffee pot and sent Mitchell a questioning look.  When he shook his head, she went to check on the other customers. 

“Funny thing, getting old.  It makes everyone younger than you look like children,” Oscar mused as he watched her walk away.  He blinked and returned his attention to Mitchell.  “Oscar Thibodaux.”

“John Mitchell.”  He picked up the newspaper and unfolded it.

Oscar ignored the unspoken hint and asked, “How long you planning on sticking around, John Mitchell?  You looking to settle, or is this just a stop on the way?”

With an internal sigh, Mitchell set his paper to the side.  “I’m not sure yet.”

“What made you choose Crescent City?”

Mitchell shrugged.  He wasn’t about to say that he thought his dead boyfriend would have liked it here.  Instead he said, “I like the atmosphere.” 

Oscar smiled, but he had a shrewd look in his eyes.  “Woman troubles?”

Mitchell was saved from having to answer when the waitress brought his food.  She sat it down, along with a bottle of warm syrup, and pulled hot sauce out of a pocket in her apron.  “Anything else?”

Mitchell shook his head and she went back to the kitchen.  He inspected the hot sauce with a scowl.

“People eat it on everything around here,” Oscar informed him. 

“Even pancakes?”  Mitchell made a face. 

Oscar laughed and had to take a moment to cough and clear his throat.  “You never know.”

Mitchell took a bite and closed his eyes in bliss.  The pancakes were perfect, light and fluffy with plenty of blueberries.  He made short work of the rest of them. 

The waitress came back around with more coffee and to take away his empty plate.  “How was it?”

“Delicious, thanks.”  He curled his hand around the coffee cup and sat back.  The recent lack of sleeping well combined with a full stomach made him tired.  He needed to find someplace to stay.  The sky was starting to lighten with the coming of dawn, and when the city woke up he could start looking.  He let his head fall back against the seat and closed his eyes.

“Son, you look like you been rode hard and put up wet.”

Mitchell opened his eyes to see Oscar watching him.  “I’ve had a rough…”  What?  Day?  Month?  Year?  He finished lamely, “Life.”

Oscar pursed his lips and thought for a minute.  “Do you know anyone here in town?”

That made Mitchell smile.  “I don’t even know anyone in this country.”

Oscar’s bushy eyebrows pulled down before rising again.  “Well, you do now.  I have an offer for you.”

Mitchell sat back up and gave Oscar his attention.  He couldn’t imagine what the old man wanted. 

“I have a carriage house on my property.  It’s not one of the fancy ones like you see in magazines, but it’s nice.  You say you need a place to stay, and I could use a little extra money.”

Well that was unexpected.  Mitchell had stayed in some pretty run down places before, so a carriage house wouldn’t be any worse than the rest of them.  “How much do you want in rent?”

Oscar named a ridiculously low price.  “There’s a catch, though.”

“Of course there is,” Mitchell dryly said.

Ignoring that, Oscar explained, “I’m getting on in years, and I could use a hand sometimes with heavy lifting, and a neighbor to call if I fall and break a hip.  Plus the carriage house is furnished, so if you have stuff of your own it won’t fit.”

“That works out perfectly, since I don’t have stuff of my own and I don’t mind doing heavy lifting.” 

Oscar gave him a doubtful look.  “You look like a stiff wind could knock you over.”

It made Mitchell laugh.  “I’m stronger than I look.”

“If you say so.  What do you think?” 

“I think you have a deal.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

The morning was full of surprises.  The first was when Oscar hopped off of his stool, grabbed his cane, and sauntered out of the door without using it.  Mitchell raised an eyebrow at him. 

Oscar chuckled and waggled the cane.  “It’s not just for show.  My knees are giving me trouble.  It makes it hard to step up and down on the curbs.  Getting old is hell, son.  I’d advise against it.”

Mitchell shrugged.  There was no way to tell the old man he was younger than Mitchell.  Instead he asked, “Do you live close?”

“Close enough.”  He kept a running chatter during the walk to his house, pointing out things he thought Mitchell might find interesting, or telling tidbits of gossip about the neighbors.  Mitchel noticed he didn’t divulge anything that might be considered a secret, or anything harmful or spiteful.  The closest he got was complaining about someone’s dog that barked all night.  Most of it was about which neighbor’s child had gone off to college, or someone who was looking for a new job.  Finally he pointed out a driveway with his cane.  “Here we are.”

The carriage house was another surprise.  Mitchell was expecting a room above a garage next to a house, something simple and small, suitable for one person.  Instead he saw a three story building standing by itself at the end of the driveway, away from the main house but connected by a long glass corridor.  The bottom floor was a three car garage with a drive through carport to one side.  The second floor had a large balcony with a wrought iron railing, and he could see red doors leading to the inside.  The third floor had windows and chimneys, but he couldn’t tell from the outside if it was part of the living space or not. 

The main house was huge, too.  Colonial style, three stories with a matching wrought iron balcony, stained glass windows, and red shutters.  Both buildings were painted the same light gray, sitting on a lot that easily covered an entire block.  A brick fence covered with vines ran around the entire property, and there were wrought iron gates at the driveway, front walk, and a side gate.

“Close your mouth before you swallow a fly.”  Humor ran through Oscar’s voice.  “Coming?”

Mitchell realized he had stopped to gawk.  “Yeah, sorry.”

“Don’t look so impressed.  It’s an old house, been in the family for a while.  It’s a hassle to keep up.”  Oscar continued up the driveway to the carriage house as he spoke. 

“It’s a beautiful home.”  Mitchell followed, trying to look everywhere at once. 

Oscar grunted.  They reached the door at the side of the carriage house, and he pointed to a mat with his cane.  “Look under there.”

Mitchell lifted the corner of the mat and picked up the key he found there.  He held it out to Oscar. 

“It’s yours.”  Oscar waved at the carriage house.  “You can go up through the garage, or there’s stairs by the carport.  If you have a car, you’ll have to leave it outside.  The garage is full.”

“I don’t have one.”  Mitchell shook his head. 

“Oh.  Well, if you need to use one, you can borrow one of mine.  Just not the red one, that one’s my baby.”  Oscar winked, but then sobered to say, “Sorry, but I can’t walk you up.  Like I said, bad knees.  I haven’t had anyone to clean the place in a while, either.  I imagine it’s dusty, but it should be okay otherwise.  Let me know if there’s anything wrong and I can call a repairman, if you can’t fix it.”

Mitchell stared at the key in his hand for a beat before looking up and asking, “What’s the catch?”

Oscar raised his eyebrows.  “Catch?”

Mitchell nodded and gestured to the carriage house.  “You could be renting this to a family for a whole lot more than you are charging me.  There’s got to be a catch.”

Oscar sighed and leaned on his cane.  “You’re not wrong, son, but it isn’t one you’ll have to handle.  I have three worthless nephews, and they’re always after me to let them come and stay.  If they do, I’ll never be able to get rid of them.  Now I can tell them that I have a tenant, and hopefully they’ll shut up and leave me be.”

Bouncing the key in his hand, Mitchell asked, “Is that it?”

Oscar’s bushy eyebrows drew down.  “Not quite.  People here are superstitious.”

“And?”

“And the last person who lived in the carriage house died.  Southerners love a good ghost story, and the property has a history.”

Mitchell looked up at the balcony.  It was too easy to imagine a ghost there, but he didn’t see anything.  “People think it’s haunted?”

“Yep, which is ridiculous.  She didn’t even die here.  She passed at the hospital.  If it was going to be haunted by anyone, it would be the left hand wives kept here,” Oscar grumbled. 

“Left hand wives?”  Mitchell couldn’t figure out what being left-handed had to do with hauntings. 

Oscar saw the confusion on Mitchell’s face and smiled.  “It’s an expression.  White men used to keep colored mistresses, and they were called the left hand wife.  You’ve heard of the quadroon balls?”

Mitchell shook his head. 

“Well, they were fancy dances, but they were also a meat market.  Pretty young girls would go to be ogled by rich white plantation owners and get set up as a left hand wife.  Those white men would spend the week with their white wives and families, then come to town and spend the weekends with their mistresses.”  Contempt was thick in Oscar’s voice. 

Mitchell blinked at the information.  “One lived here?”

Oscar nodded and then shrugged.  “This was a time when slavery was perfectly acceptable.  Having a free person of color as a mistress was considered a sign of prestige.  Anyway, the lady that lived here before you didn’t have any family.  With my knees, I haven’t been up there to clear out her stuff.  I hired a girl to clean out the fridge so it isn’t a science experiment, but everything else is up there.  You can use what you want.  If you’re willing to box up the rest of it so I can have someone pick it up, I’ll give you a discount on the first month’s rent.”

“I already feel like I’m robbing you.  You could get more money from someone else.”

“Maybe.  Then again, maybe not.  At least you’re sparing me the trouble of having to place an ad and find someone to rent it.  Do we have a deal?”

Mitchell looked up at the empty balcony again before sticking out his hand.  “Sure.”

Oscar shook the offered hand with the light grip that the elderly with arthritis used.  “Good.”

***

After paying the first and last month’s rent, with a provision for a discount next month if he cleaned out the apartment, Mitchell went to explore his new home.  He took the stairs at the side by the carport, leaving the garage for another time.  When he opened the door and stepped inside, he looked around with wide eyes. 

It was like stepping into the past.  Not entirely, of course.  There were still the trappings of a modern home.  A flat screen television hung on the wall, opposite a framed work of elaborate embroidery.  There were outlets discreetly hiding behind a free standing coat rack, and a cabinet holding a wash basin and pitcher.  Air pumped through the vents from an air conditioner, causing the beads dangling from a lampshade to have the slightest tremble.  A fainting couch had an electric blanket neatly folded on the end of it.   

Further exploration showed a modern kitchen outfitted with stainless steel appliances, which was a relief.  He didn’t want to be stuck using a wood stove instead of a microwave.  In the formal dining room, there was a table big enough to seat ten people.  A china hutch stood guard against the wall, full of tiny silver demitasse cups with matching saucers and spoons.  A runner carpeted the wooden floor in the hallway leading to a bathroom with a huge shower stall beside a long clawfoot tub.  There were oil paintings in every room, and lacy doilies were draped over chairs and tables.  Damask couches, brocade wallpaper, and plush rugs were everywhere he looked.  He almost expected an antebellum belle in a hoop skirt to come floating down the stairs. 

_This place is decorated in nineteenth century whorehouse,_ Anders murmured in the back of his mind.  This was such a contrast to Anders’ modern, sparsely decorated home that it was like another world.  Anders would have bitched and moaned about everything in the house before grudgingly admitting that fine, maybe it wasn’t so bad as long as he got to use the tub. 

Mitchell’s stomach twisted at the thought.  He missed Anders so much.  How was he supposed to live the rest of eternity without the man who stole his heart?  This wasn’t supposed to happen, not like this.  He should be curled up in bed with Anders sleeping in his arms right now, not halfway across the world in an old house filled with a stranger’s things. 

The weight of all the travel suddenly hit, causing him to lose what precious little energy he had left.  It felt like he had walked the entire distance, instead of taking a boat or driving.  He hurt from head to toe.

Investigating the upstairs floor was too much work right now.  Instead, he opened closets until he found a stack of blankets.  He took one and shook it open, smelling it to make sure it didn’t reek of mothballs.  All he could smell was a faint trace of detergent, so he took it back to the couch.  After emptying his pockets and kicking off his boots, he wrapped up in the blanket and laid down on the couch.  He grabbed the remote, fumbling with it for a minute before turning on the television.  It didn’t matter what was on.  He just wanted the noise so he didn’t feel so alone. 

He was so tired his eyes were burning, but he couldn’t relax.  It was hard, being surrounded by unfamiliar smells and sounds.  He stared blankly at nothing for a long time before finally giving into temptation and reaching for his phone.  He hit a button, closed his eyes, and pressed the phone to his ear. 

“You’ve reached Anders Johnson, JPR.  Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

 


	10. Chapter 10

Mitchell tried to start clearing out the carriage house, but there was so much stuff it was difficult to make progress.  The woman that lived there before him had eclectic tastes and seemed to save everything.  Most of it was valuable, or at least interesting, but some of it was mystifying or junk.  It seemed like every time he threw something out, two more things appeared to take its place.  When he found a drawer full of rubber bands and bread bag twist ties, he decided he needed a break.  Oscar had mentioned some sort of music festival nearby, so he thought he’d check it out. 

Reading about New Orleans or seeing it on television doesn’t prepare someone for the reality.  The heat was nice for someone who was perpetually cold, and even with the sun down the warmth lingered enough that he didn’t need his jacket or gloves.  The constant humidity wrecked his hair though.  Trying to tame his curls was a lesson in futility.  He just brushed them out of his face and tried to ignore the one rogue strand that insisted on hanging in his eyes. 

The downtown street was closed to cars for the festival, and there were people everywhere.  Most of the people were speaking English, but he also heard a lot of Creole patois, and a smattering of the broken ‘gumbo French.’  Everywhere a slow Southern drawl was spoken in unhurried, sugar sweet tones, with the occasional group of tourists standing out by speaking something like a contrasting New York accent or a language Mitchell couldn’t identify.  Different kinds of music was blaring from the open doors of bars and a stage was set up at the end of the block.  Street vendors and doormen were shouting over the cacophony, trying to convince customers to visit their nightclubs, take advantage of drink specials, or buy their wares.  Scents of funnel cakes, cotton candy, seafood, and beer floated by, occasionally broken by the acrid tang of pot and patchouli.  Under all of it was the metallic scent of human blood. 

Maybe this was a bad idea.  Being around this many people made him felt exposed and raw, not to mention it only served to highlight how alone in the world he was.  Everywhere he looked, there were couples holding hands and walking in step, or groups of friends laughing and joking with each other.  It was crowded enough that people were brushing past him, with the occasional woman or man, made bold on liquid courage, trailing a hand across his shoulders or down his arm.  When someone grabbed his butt, he ducked into the alcove in front of a closed store, seeking a little reprieve from the mass of humanity.  He didn’t see the young woman sitting there on the stoop until he almost stepped on her. 

“Sorry.”  He shuffled back, trying not to mess up the scarf she had spread across the ground, or knock over any of the little figurines she had sitting around her.  There were a couple of lit candles in jars with sand, and a cone of incense was sending up a fragrant trail of smoke.  There was a small bundle of some sort of herb beside one of the candles, one end of it charred.  If he had to guess from the smell, it was sage.

The woman herself would have been right at home on almost any college campus.  She was wearing a vibrant blue sundress with a creamy shawl wrapped around her shoulders.  Her hair was held back from her face with a matching blue bandana, and she was wearing a pair of white sandals, a ring on one toe glinting in the candlelight.  She wore a few wooden bead bracelets which rattled together as she moved.  She smiled up at him and tucked her dress around her knees.  “It’s okay.  Would you like your fortune told?”  She waggled a deck of cards in the air.

“No thanks.” 

Before he could make an escape, she asked, “How about a palm reading?  On the house.  It’s been a slow night.”

The crowd had momentarily thickened, making a quick getaway impossible, so he said, “Sure, why not?”

“Pull up a seat.”  She gestured to the scarf opposite her. 

Mitchell sat down, crossing his long legs tailor style and hoping he didn’t break anything.  When she motioned to him, he held his hand out palm up.  “I’ve never had my palm read before.”

“There’s a first time for everything.”  She inspected his hand, turning it over to look at the back before flipping it to look at his palm again.  “You’ve suffered a loss.”

Her words drove a sharp spike of pain through his heart, but he didn’t let it show.  That comment was vague enough to apply to just about everyone.  He wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of a reaction.

She curled his fingers loosely, tapping a spot on his hand.  “You’ve had a tough time.  Sometimes it feels like you’re cursed, carrying the weight of the world.”

This time her words brought anger.  He glowered at her and said, “Let me guess.  You can remove my curse for the right price.”

She looked up in surprise before smiling.  “Not me.  I’m sure you can find a grifter if you want.  All I do is read cards and palms.  Curse removal is out of my league.”

He made a noncommittal noise.  There was no one who could remove his curse.  Not without putting a stake through his heart, anyway. 

The young woman looked back down at his palm.  She traced a faint line on the ball of his thumb.  “It’s not all bad, though.  See this?  It means you have a guardian spirit.  Someone is looking out for you.”

He couldn’t suppress a snort.  “I don’t think angels are much interested in me.”

“I didn’t say guardian angel.  I said spirit.”

Intrigued in spite of himself, he asked, “What kind of spirit?”

“How should I know?”  She shrugged and gave him an impish grin.  “For all I know, you found the spirit of a dead squirrel.”

“A guardian squirrel.  That figures.”  He rolled his eyes.  Would he even be able to see the ghost of a squirrel?  He hasn’t ever seen other animal ghosts.  He was glad for that, since it might make eating a burger awkward.

“Hey, don’t knock it.  It’s trying to help.  Besides, I said I don’t know what sort of guardian you have.”  She bowed her head again and traced a finger over his wrist.  “Your fortunes are going to change soon, too.  I want to say for the better, but it’s hard to tell.”

“It would have to be for the better.  Things can’t get much worse.”

She licked her index finger and used it to draw three X shapes in the air.  With a scowl, she told him, “Don’t say that.  Things can always get worse.  Saying they can’t is tempting fate.”

Mitchell tried not to smile at her ferocious look.  He nodded and said, “Yes ma’am.  I won’t say it again.”

She huffed and looked back at his hand.  “You need to start paying attention.”

“To what?”

“The little things.”  She used her thumb to track a line running from his ring finger to his wrist.  “Something’s going to happen, but if you don’t pay attention you’ll miss it.”

“What’s going to happen?”  He bent his head to see what she was looking at. 

She raised her eyebrows and let go of his hand after patting it.  “I’m reading a palm, not a book.  It’s not super specific, sorry.  But I can tell you that you can put down some of the burden you’re carrying.  Guilt can weigh you down enough to paralyze you.  You can’t move forward if you’re drowning in it.”

What did this child know of guilt?  Let her live as long as he had, commit the sins he had done, and then he’d take advice from her about guilt.  He took his hand back and inspected it.  He didn’t know what she saw, if she really saw anything at all.  It looked the same as it always did to him.  “Is that it?”

“Yep, you’re done.”  She leaned back against the door behind her.

He didn’t believe in fortune telling, but this had been a nice break from the partying throng.  He looked around, but no one was looking in their direction.  “You’d have more customers if you put out a sign.  Maybe set up in a spot so more people could see you.”

She didn’t seem bothered by the lack of commerce.  “People can find me here if they need me.”

“Do you advertise somewhere?”

“Nope.”

“Are you here often?”

“Nope.  Today’s the first time.”

He looked back at her.  “Then how do people know to find you here?”

“You found me, didn’t you?”

“I wasn’t looking for you.”

“And yet, here you are.”  She shrugged. 

“But I wasn’t looking.”

“You must have been looking for something.”

This verbal sparring was starting to make his head hurt.  “I was looking for a place away from the crowd.”

She gestured to the little alcove they were sitting in.  “And you found it.  You wouldn’t have found it if you weren’t looking for it, though.  Just because you think you found a thing, that doesn’t mean you should stop looking.”

Mitchell was tired of her enigmatic talk.  He stood, making sure not to break anything.  He pulled a bill from his pocket and offered it to her. 

“Nah.  I told you, it’s free.”

“Consider it a tip, then.”

She took it with a shrug.  “Thanks.  And don’t forget to pay attention.”

“To the little things.  Yeah, I remember.”

She smiled and waved as he stepped back into the crowd.  She said something else, but it was lost to the noise of the festival.

He walked around a bit more, but he’d had enough of people for one evening.  He slipped down a side street, heading away from the crowds.  A few blocks away he could still hear the thumping bass from the band on stage, but there were very few other people around. 

The music had faded away when he came across a cemetery.  There was a short brick wall surrounding it, obviously more of a decoration than obstacle since he could have stepped over it with ease.  An arch over the main entrance announced it to be the ‘Memorial Gardens of Saint Philomena.’  Mitchell was curious so he decided to go in. 

As soon as he entered, he felt the low grade hum of sensation that always came from being on hallowed ground.  It wasn’t painful, like it would be if he entered the church next door, but he noticed it.  It reminded him of the drums of the band, if they had been silent and he could only feel the vibrations.  It was easy to ignore as he explored, though. 

It was one of those cemeteries where all the tombs were above ground, and no one was actually buried.  Digging a grave would have been impossible in a city that was below sea level, so there wasn’t much choice.  Most of the tombs were low, only big enough to accommodate a coffin.  Occasionally they were decorated with carvings of angels or lambs, or the occasional carved flowers.  Here and there were ones more elaborately decorated, and one that reminded him of an Egyptian sarcophagus with the stone portrait of a sleeping man on the top of it. 

As he went farther back into the little cemetery where the graves were older, the low tombs gave way to tall mausoleums.  There were buildings as tall as he was, able to accommodate several caskets.  Instead of individual names and dates, the buildings often just had the family name over the door.  He stopped to look at one of them.  It seemed sad, to lose your name upon death and become just another body in the family crypt.  He ran a finger across a finial outlined in moss.

There was a flash of light, and footsteps coming closer.  Mitchell waited to see who it might be.  If it was a mugger, they were going to regret hunting him down. 

But no, it was a priest who turned the corner and shined the light at Mitchell.  When Mitchell squinted, he lowered it.  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to blind you.  If you’re looking for some place to sleep, there’s a shelter a few blocks down.”

Mitchell couldn’t help but grin at that.  “I’m not homeless.  I was just looking at the graves.”

“Ah, sorry again, then.  Sometimes people try to sleep here if they’re drunk or they come here to get high.  Either way, the cemetery is closed until morning.”  The priest gestured for Mitchell to start walking. 

Mitchell shrugged, but stepped forward.  “I didn’t see a sign.”

“It was probably stolen again.”  The priest walked beside Mitchell, thoughtfully using his flashlight to light the way. 

Mitchell didn’t need it since he could see in the dark, but he didn’t say so.  Instead he asked, “Who is Saint Philomena?”

The priest smiled, making him look younger.  “The patron saint of lost causes.”

Mitchell snorted.  “Really?  Some causes are too lost for even a saint to help.”

The priest lost his smile.  “No cause is too lost for God’s help.”

Mitchell thought for a moment before asking, “Is there a sin that is so bad, it’s even beyond God’s forgiveness?”

“Of course not.  Are you Catholic?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Would you like to be?”

Sure, let’s take a vampire into a church and dip him in holy water.  That should go over well.  Mitchell didn’t say so, instead just saying, “Not tonight.”

The priest didn’t seem put off.  He said, “If you aren’t Catholic I can’t give you absolution.  I can tell you this, though:  If you are truly sorry and repent your sins, and resolve to not do them again, ask and you will be forgiven.”

“What if I’m sorry, but I do it again anyway?”

“That’s when things start to get more complicated.  Why do it again if you know it is a sin?”

“Maybe I can’t help it.”

They’d reached the entryway to the cemetery, and the priest stopped to turn to Mitchell.  “I don’t have the authority to absolve you from sin, but if you’d like to come by and visit, I can help you decide what direction you need to take to heal your relationship with God.”

“I’ll think about it.”  He didn’t think a Christian God had much interest in him, a murdering vampire who had a gay relationship with the vessel of a Norse deity.  If there was some sort of ‘going to hell’ bingo, his card had been filled.

Before Mitchell could leave, the priest laid a hand on his shoulder and told him, “Catholic or not, helping people with their examination of conscience and search for forgiveness is my sacred obligation.  It’s my responsibility and my duty.  There is no sin so awful that it would cause God to turn them away and deny forgiveness.”

Looking into the priest’s earnest face, Mitchell wanted to bare his fangs.  Let’s see how willing this holy man would be to try and help him after his throat was torn out.  He struggled with the impulse, swallowing hard before he said, “I’ll keep it in mind.  Thank you, Father.”

As Mitchell walked away, the priest called after him, “I live in the house behind the cemetery.  You’re welcome to come by anytime.”

Mitchell didn’t bother turning around.  He just waved a hand and kept walking.  He’d had enough mystical bullshit for one day.  He wanted to go home where he could be alone and lock out the world.

The priest did have a point, though.  Mitchell must not be very sorry for killing people if he kept doing it.  He could beat his chest and cry mea culpa all day, but if he turned around and did it again, his regret was hollow. 

He could stop drinking blood.  He’d done it before.  He knew it would be hard, and it would get painful, but he could do it.  It wasn’t like he was even getting that much enjoyment out of it anymore, not like he used to.  Maybe if he stopped killing, stopped drinking blood, he would finally find the courage to end his own miserable existence. 

That firmed his resolve.  That’s what he would do.  He’d stop, and when the pain finally grew to be unendurable, he would drive a stake through his heart.  It would end his undead life, such as it was.  And maybe, just maybe, God would accept his regrets and apologies, and he would be allowed to see Anders one more time. 

 


	11. Chapter 11

He’d forgotten how much going without blood would hurt.  He knew he could do it, he’d done it before, but it was damned unpleasant.  He hadn’t slept all night and was trying to distract himself by cleaning out the carriage house, but it wasn’t working.  He ignored the pangs in his stomach as he pulled a drawer out of the kitchen cabinet and dumped the contents into a bag.  It was nothing but a bunch of packets of condiments, mostly ketchup, that had been saved from fast food places.  The previous tenant had been something of a hoarder, but at least he hadn’t come across anything worse than an exploded ketchup packet yet.   His bag was full, so he gathered it up and took it out to the trash bin. 

Oscar was out there too, setting a stack of newspapers into the recycling.  He smiled and greeted Mitchell.  “Fine morning, isn’t it?”

No, it wasn’t, it was already hot and humid, he was starving and miserable, and the sun was too bright for a vampire.  Hell, it was too bright for anyone.  He didn’t say so, instead just made a grunting noise as he threw the bag into the bin. 

Before he could make his escape, Oscar asked, “How’s the clearing out coming along?”

“Slow, but I’m working on it.”  Mitchell couldn’t keep the irritated tone out of his voice, and felt bad.  He didn’t mean to snap at Oscar.  He sighed, pushed his hair back with his hands and said, “I’ll get it done.  I promise.”

Oscar frowned, but shrugged.  “I’m not worried about it.  There’s no rush, if you can live with it.  Are you doing okay?”

Mitchell’s hands were shaking, and Oscar was watching them with that frown.  Mitchell crossed his arms, tucking his hands out of sight.  “I’m fine.  I just need to go to the store and get some groceries.”

“Ah, low blood sugar.”  Oscar nodded and his face cleared. 

Mitchell nodded and agreed.  It wasn’t really even a lie.  He’d feel better after he ate something. 

“Well, why don’t you come over to the house?  You can have a bite to tide you over.”

That was an unfortunate choice of words on Oscar’s part.  Being alone with the old man wouldn’t be the best idea right now.  Mitchell shook his head.  “I was headed to the shower, and then I can grab something on the way to the store.”

“It’s no trouble.”  After Mitchell refused again, Oscar pointed at him.  “Wait right here.  Don’t go running off and make me come up those steps after you.  Mind me, now.”

“Yes, sir.”  Mitchell couldn’t help but smile at the bossy tone as he watched Oscar walk away.  He was getting fond of the old guy, and it would be a shame to accidentally kill him. 

Oscar came back carrying a white box.  He handed it to Mitchell and said, “They’ve cooled off a bit by now, but they’re still good.”

Mitchell opened the box to see two fluffy pillows of fried dough, covered in a mountain of powdered sugar.  “What’s this?”

“Beignets.  Try one.”

Balancing the box in one hand, he gingerly picked up one of the beignets and shook it to rid it of the excess powdered sugar.  Even so, when he bit into a corner, powdered sugar went everywhere.  He got it down his shirt and was positive it was on his face, but Mitchell didn’t care.  He moaned as the beignet melted in his mouth. 

Oscar beamed a smile at the sound.  “Not bad, huh?”

Mitchel swallowed and said, “These are delicious.  Where did you get them?”

“At Adelaide’s, over on Fourth.  Everyone’s always fussing over Café Du Monde, but Adelaide’s are just as good and they aren’t packed with tourists.  They’re better fresh, and you can get a café au lait and you’re all set.”

Mitchell couldn’t see how they would be any better.  The beignet was still warm, with some of the sugar melted into a glaze.  He took another bite, not caring if it turned him into a sticky mess.  After swallowing he said, “Thank you.  This hits the spot.”

Oscar waved a hand.  “It’s nothing.  You come over if you need anything.”  With that, the old man turned and left. 

Mitchell stayed where he was to finish the beignets, tossing the box into the trash when he was done.  He brushed the sugar from his shirt and did his best to wipe off his face, leaving a feast on the ground for the ants before heading back to the carriage house for a shower. 

He hadn’t lied.  The beignets had helped with the hallow churning in his gut.  It was not a substitute for blood, but the combination of sugar, carbs, and fats helped alleviate the symptoms.  His hands barely had a tremor as he buttoned his shirt and finished dressing after he washed up and he felt steadier.  He knew it wouldn’t last, though. 

Oscar had mentioned he could borrow a car, but there was a store only a few blocks away.  It would be simpler to walk, and would give him a chance to look around the neighborhood a bit more. 

The sun might be too harsh to be comfortable for a vampire, but everything else seemed to thrive on it.  The vines crawling up the fence around the property had bloomed with orange flowers, turning the fence into a vivid blaze.  Other houses around were adorned in riots of colors, from carefully maintained rose bushes climbing a trellis to dazzling yellow flowers scattered across a green lawn in need of mowing.  Walking down the sidewalk wasn’t too bad, since there were trees casting shade over most of it, full of birds calling to one another.  One bold squirrel scolded him as he walked past, hanging upside down on a tree trunk and chittering away.  People were out working in their yards, usually older women wearing big floppy hats but men were represented as well.  He could hear the laughter of a child floating from a nearby backyard, and a few kids called out as they raced by on bicycles.  It was picturesque, like a quaint scene from a movie. 

He despised it. 

There was a constant lump of resentment, like bile, at the back of his throat.  He hated every one of these happy families in their picture-perfect houses.  As beautiful as it all may be, this wasn’t home.  His home was dead and gone and he’d never find it again. 

He shoved that thought down as he entered the store.  Dwelling on the past did no good.  Instead he focused on gathering a few things that were easy to cook, and easier to eat.  Frozen pizza, mainly, with a couple of TV dinners and a loaf of bread.  He’d get a few things now, and borrow Oscar’s car to get more in a couple of days.  He’d have to give some thought to finding a job soon, too.  His ill-gotten gains were not going to last much longer.  He still had a little time, though.

As he was trying to figure out the differences in sliced cheese, his hackles rose.  Someone was watching him.  He looked up, but didn’t see anyone nearby.  He didn’t smell anyone either.  Even so, he kept a watchful eye open as he grabbed a random package of cheese and headed to the register. 

No was paying him any special attention.  The cashier didn’t even look up as he swiped items across the scanner.  There wasn’t anyone lurking around, either.  The feeling still didn’t subside as he paid and left. 

He’d had a long time to hone his instincts, and they were screaming at him.  The tiny hairs along his arms were raised, and he could practically feel eyes on him.  He still couldn’t see anyone, but someone was following him.  Without looking back, he turned in the opposite direction of home.  He kept his gait slow so he didn’t outpace his stalker with his long legs.  He didn’t want to lead them to where he lived, but he wanted to know what this was all about.  He just needed to lure them into a place that was secluded, and then he could confront them. 

Maybe it was another vampire, curious about the new predator in their territory.  Mitchell strained his ears and yes, there was the sound of footsteps behind him.  He slowed down a bit more, but the footsteps didn’t change.  They would catch up with him shortly. 

He shifted his bag to his other hand and turned into the next alley he passed.  It led behind a couple of restaurants and a boutique, but none of them were open yet.  Good, there would be no one accidentally interrupting them in case this got messy. 

The footsteps turned into the alley behind him and sped up.  He slowed further, and they increased until whoever was following him was jogging.  From the sound of it, there was only one person.  Now that they were getting closer, he knew it was a human and not a vampire.  A vampire wouldn’t have made little huffs as they jogged along, or had an increasing heartbeat.  This was good, because he didn’t want to fight with another vampire while he wasn’t drinking blood and was weaker as a result.  It was bad, because if a human had good intentions they would have called after him by now.  Something about a dropped wallet, or forgotten change, or even just a simple ‘hey,’ but they wouldn’t have chased him down into an alley silently. 

He dropped the pretense of walking and stopped, waiting for the human to close in.  The footsteps never faltered.  When they were right behind him, Mitchell dropped the bag and whirled, grabbing his pursuer’s outstretched arm and whipping them around.  He slammed them into the wall and pressed against them, one forearm against their throat and holding them in place with his body.    

It was a shock to find himself staring into familiar eyes the color of a spring sky.  He blinked, and then blinked again, wondering if he was hallucinating.  Maybe the heat combined with his grief was causing him to see things that weren’t there. 

“Anders?” he whispered through numb lips. 

Anders smiled and nodded. 

Mitchell sucked in a sharp breath, and that’s when it hit him: the smell of home.  Standing here in a grubby alley halfway around the world, somehow he’d found something he thought was lost forever.  His eyes filled with tears as he took his arm away from Anders’ throat.  Rather than step back, he wrapped his arms around Anders, crushing him to his chest.  He buried his face into golden waves, inhaled again, and started to cry. 

 


	12. Chapter 12

Mitchell didn’t know how long he stood there, clinging to Anders and sobbing into his hair, but it was the rattle of someone opening the back door to one of the shops that made him aware of his surroundings once more.  He sniffled and tried to regain control, but didn’t step back.  He couldn’t, he just couldn’t release Anders, not yet.

For his part, Anders returned the embrace with one arm.  He smoothed his other hand up and down Mitchell’s back, trying to soothe the hysterical vampire.  When Mitchell quit crying, Anders gave him a tight squeeze, not letting go until Mitchell leaned back.

“I saw you die,” Mitchell whispered.  He caught Anders’ face in his palms, looking into those cornflower eyes he had missed so much.  “You died in my arms on the kitchen floor.  I watched it.  I couldn’t stop it.”  Mitchell’s eyes filled with tears again.

Anders nodded and reached up to brush a stray curl out of Mitchell’s face before using his thumbs to wipe away the tears spilling over. 

“You were dead.  How are you here?”  Mitchell wasn’t complaining, not at all, but he couldn’t begin to guess what happened.

Anders smiled, flashing those dimples that Mitchell loved so much, and started talking.  At least he tried.  His mouth moved but no sound emerged.  His eyes widened in surprise and his mouth moved again. 

Mitchell was still leaning against him, and knew Anders was speaking.  He could feel the rumble of Anders’ voice through his chest, and under his hands where they rested on Anders’ shoulders.  No sounds accompanied the vibrations, however.  He pressed his fingers against Anders’ throat, feeling it move.  “What the hell?”

Anders frowned and spoke again.  A look of pure frustration crossed his face before he looked up and said something else. 

It was eerie to watch, like a movie where someone had turned the volume all the way down.  Mitchell took a step back and quit pinning Anders against the wall as Anders grew agitated.  If he had to guess, Anders was yelling something at the cloudless sky.  This was wrong, though.  He should have been able to hear something.  Even if Anders had lost his voice somehow, there should have at least been the faint whisper of air passing through his vocal cords.  Instead there was nothing, no sounds at all. 

“Are you hurt?” Mitchell asked him.  “Is that why you can’t talk?”

Anders ran a hand through his hair and shook his head.  He gestured to his throat and pointed at the sky. 

Mitchell couldn’t figure out what he was trying to convey.  Anders mouthed something, but he couldn’t figure it out.  It wasn’t like he could read lips.  Anders looked at him expectantly, but all he could do was shrug.  Anders heaved a sigh, Mitchell could see his shoulders and chest move with it, but it was just as silent as everything else. 

A man yelled something down the alley.  He wasn’t talking to them, but the noise made Mitchell feel too vulnerable.  It was too exposed here.  He wanted Anders some place safe.  He held out his hand and said, “We can figure it out later.  Come home with me?”

Anders nodded and took the offered hand. 

Mitchell scooped up the dropped bag of groceries with his free arm.  He was reluctant to let go of Anders.  This was too unreal.  What if Anders vanished as quickly as he had appeared?  Thankfully Anders seemed as unwilling to let go as Mitchell was.  He held on to Mitchell’s hand with a tight grip, and clung to his arm.  It made walking a bit difficult, but Mitchell wasn’t about to complain. 

The walk home felt like a dream.  Anders didn’t say anything, or even try to speak.  Neither did Mitchell.  He had so many questions running through his head he couldn’t keep them straight, but he didn’t want to talk about it in public.  That could wait until they got home.  Right now he was concentrating on Anders walking beside him. 

He’d missed this.  Being part of a couple, walking side by side and in step with someone else.  He’d never noticed it before, but having it again after so long an absence made him pay attention.  Without thinking about it, his stride had shortened a bit so his longer legs didn’t outpace Anders.  He noticed that Anders had lengthened his stride enough to keep up without it becoming awkward. 

Anders was looking around with interest.  As they passed under the trees, the dappled sunlight laced his hair with streaks of bronze and gold.  His eyes seemed a brighter blue in the sun, switching to a light gray as they passed in the shade.  Mitchell watched him look up at a tree trailing Spanish moss, and seeing Anders there, like that, would have stolen his breath if he were human.  There were subtle differences, and it was not until Mitchell watched for a while that he could pinpoint them. 

In New Zealand, Anders was constantly dealing with stress in one form or another.  His family always badgered him, Dawn pushed him to work harder, the business seemed to always teeter on the brink of disaster, and god business popped up out of nowhere.  Anders dealt with the pressure mainly by drinking, occasionally using drugs, and using sex to try and forget.  Anders was only human, and the results of the excesses showed.  His eyes were bloodshot, complexion pale and blotchy, bags under his eyes and the beginnings of gin blossoms across his cheeks.  More often than not, the blue of his eyes was a depressed, washed out gray.  A poor diet and lack of exercise made him out of breath easily, and he had the tiny beginning of a spare tire around his midsection. 

That was all gone.  Anders’ eyes and face were clear, his skin had a healthy glow, and he was able to keep up with Mitchell without showing signs of fatigue or shortness of breath.  His eyes might change a little with the light or the angle, but they were alert and the bags were gone.  So were the beer gut, love handles, and the faint trace of double chin.  This is what Anders would have been like if he had a normal life with a normal family.  It twisted something in Mitchell’s heart, to see him like this and know this was how Anders should have been. 

He must have been staring, because Anders glanced over and squeezed his hand.  Mitchell smiled and returned the squeeze.  Anders pointed at the Spanish moss, and then waved his hand around before looking back at Mitchell with a question in his eyes. 

“The trees?”  Mitchell looked around.  “I don’t know what kind they are.”

Anders huffed and gave him an exasperated look.  He waved his arm around again and stared at Mitchell. 

“We’re in New Orleans.” 

That must have been the answer Anders was searching for.  He nodded and looked around again.  Mitchell couldn’t help but wonder why Anders didn’t know where he was.

Mitchell was glad when they made it back to the carriage house without incident.  Oscar was nowhere to be seen, so he didn’t have to try and explain why he was bringing his dead boyfriend home.  Or not dead boyfriend, undead boyfriend, whatever.  It didn’t matter.  All that mattered was Anders was here with him now.  Anders was home. 

He ushered Anders up the stairs and into the carriage house, still holding his hand.  He didn’t let go until they were inside with the door securely locked behind them.  He pressed his back against the door and watched Anders, relieved to have him safe. 

Anders stepped into the living room, looking around with wide eyes.  His lips pursed in a soundless whistle before he crossed over to a table.  He flicked the beads hanging from a lampshade with a fingernail, causing them to tinkle together as he looked at Mitchell with a raised eyebrow. 

It was the exact look Mitchell had imagined Anders would have, and it surprised a laugh out of him.  “Yeah, I know.  Early American whore house, right?”

Anders silently laughed and nodded. 

“Let me put this stuff up before it melts,” Mitchell said, gesturing to the bag of groceries.  The TV dinners might be a lost cause, but the pizzas should still be decent.  He headed to the kitchen and Anders trailed along behind him. 

He haphazardly stuffed everything into the freezer, not caring if it got smashed or not.  He could sort it out later.  He tried to close the door, but had to change the angle of a pizza box before it would shut.  When he was done he crossed the kitchen to stand in front of Anders, catching his wrists.  He relished the warmth, the pulse, and the life under his fingertips as he asked, “What happened to your voice?”

Anders started to speak, but yet again there was no sound.  He stopped and rolled his eyes with a sigh before he shrugged. 

“Wait a second, I have a pen somewhere.”  Mitchell whirled away and started digging through drawers.  He knew there was a pen, and a notepad too.  He’d just cleaned out these drawers and kept the things that seemed useful.  He found them in the drawer by the stove and muttered, “Here they are.  Why are these by the stove?  That makes no sense.  I should put them by the phone.”

He handed the notepad to Anders before reclaiming it and scribbling on it with the pen.  When that didn’t work, he tossed the pen into the trash can and found another.  This was repeated twice more before he finally found a pen that worked, and handed it to Anders with a triumphant grin.

Anders bent over the counter and wrote something out before showing it to Mitchell with a smile. 

Mitchell looked at the paper and back to Anders.  He took it and held it up for a closer look.  The paper looked as if a chicken had decided to take up calligraphy.  He tilted it, but it made no more sense at a different angle.  He frowned at Anders.  “Is this a joke?”

The smile faded from Anders face.  He took the paper back and ran his finger slowly under some of the markings.  Mitchell was still confused, and Anders pointed forcefully to one of the marks then shook the paper. 

“I don’t understand what that says.”  Mitchell reached out, intending to take Anders’ hand.

Before he could, Anders balled up the paper, scowling and mouthing something.  Mitchell didn’t have to be able to read his lips to know Anders was cursing.  Anders threw the wad of paper on the counter.  He braced his arms on the counter, pressing his lips together and bowing his head over the paper wad. 

“I’ve heard of people becoming aphasic from a stroke or head trauma,” Mitchell mused.  “Do you think something like that happened?”

Anders shook his head, then stood up straight.  He gave Mitchell an intent look, placed his hands over his throat, and shook his head. 

“I’ve always been pretty shit at charades,” Mitchell murmured.  Louder, he said, “You’ve lost your voice.  I got it.”

Anders gave a silent, exasperated huff.  Still looking at Mitchell, he placed his hands over his throat again, then took them away and held them palms up, lifting them above his head and then waving. 

“Your voice has gone bye-bye?” Mitchell guessed. 

Anders nodded but still looked frustrated.  He thought for a second and then his eyebrows popped up.  He tapped Mitchel’s breastbone before holding his hands up to his mouth, making hooks out of his index fingers. 

“Fangs?”  At Anders encouraging nod, he said, “A vampire?”

Anders gave him a broad smile and a nod.  Mitchell smiled back, feeling absurdly pleased to have at least guessed that right.  Anders tapped his own chest before placing a palm over his throat, then removing it and waving.  He looked hopefully at Mitchell. 

Mitchell thought about it for a second before hazarding a guess.  “If I’m a vampire, you’re a god.  Speech was your power.  Did Bragi take it?”

Anders shrugged, but then nodded. 

“I’m close, but that’s not quite it.  More god stuff?”

Anders nodded.  He smiled and laid a finger alongside his nose. 

“Well then, what do we need to do for you to get your voice back?”

Losing his smile, Anders shook his head. 

“You won’t get your voice back?” 

Anders shook his head again and looked down. 

Mitchell stepped forward and caught him in a bear hug.  “It doesn’t matter.  As long as you’re here and alive.  We can figure something out to communicate.”

Anders sighed but nodded and hugged him back. 

With or without his voice, Mitchell was just happy to have Anders back in his arms, alive and well.  They’d figure everything else out later.  All that mattered right now was that, against all odds, even though it should be impossible, they were together again.  Mitchell closed his eyes, buried his face in Anders’ hair, and inhaled the scent of home. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, kudos, and comments!  
> As always, I am over at Tumblr. Feel free to leave a prompt, tell me about your headcanons, or just say hi! 
> 
> [ [My personal blog] ](http://myseri.tumblr.com/)  
> [[My writing blog]](http://saucywenchwritingblog.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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